


Picture Perfect: Fingerprints

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Anal Fingering, Bruises, Consensual Violence, Established Relationship, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, M/M, Masochism, No Aftercare, No Plot/Plotless, Picture Perfect, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punching, Sadism, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:44:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4139895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hanamiya never moves for the first few minutes -- he just lies limp over the tangled sheets, usually dripping blood from a split lip or the print of Imayoshi’s teeth at his hip or shoulder, stares blankly at the wall with all the sparking taunt in his eyes gone flat and exhausted." Imayoshi likes Hanamiya right after he's done with him, and the more when he turns out to not be quite finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Perfect: Fingerprints

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Picture Perfect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962113) by [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/pseuds/RubyFiamma). 



Imayoshi’s favorite times are right after he’s done with Hanamiya. There’s something about the way the other’s manic smirk falls slack, the way his skin collects an unhealthy pallor from the sheen of sweat and the shadows of rising bruises that Imayoshi loves, that unwinds some bone-deep need in him so he can relax into the comfort and satisfaction he can’t find anywhere else. Hanamiya never moves for the first few minutes -- he just lies limp over the tangled sheets, usually dripping blood from a split lip or the print of Imayoshi’s teeth at his hip or shoulder, stares blankly at the wall with all the sparking taunt in his eyes gone flat and exhausted. 

Imayoshi loves it. He can take his time when Hanamiya’s like this, when the aching need for destruction in his own veins has fallen silent and sated, can appreciate the beauty in the other’s body without feeling the need to break it apart. Hanamiya’s shoulders are particularly striking, the slumped shape of them bearing the darkest patterns of the tattoos printed over his back, and when he’s gone still and breathless Imayoshi can trace the lines over his shoulders, along the curve of his neck and down across the bony ridges of his spine and ribcage. There are bruises here too, prints that fit Imayoshi’s long fingers and a scrape from the bedframe, he thinks, deep enough to flush dark with injury but not enough to bleed, but the ink contrasts enough to push them to obscurity, to insignificance. It makes Hanamiya into a canvas, makes the shift of his breathing and the pulse of his blood of secondary importance if at all; he’s there to bear the weight of the tattoos curling against his spine, the weight of his own survival of far lesser import.

“You’re beautiful,” Imayoshi observes, because it’s true and honesty is the one thing they always give each other. His palm fits against the small of Hanamiya’s back, his fingers curl against the dip of his waist. “Makoto.”

Hanamiya doesn’t answer aloud, doesn’t even huff a breath to indicate he’s heard. He just shifts his arm, tips himself half-onto his stomach like he’s offering his back for Imayoshi’s fingers. Imayoshi isn’t entirely sure the motion is in response to his words anyway, doesn’t care even if it’s the instinctive movement towards the comfort of human touch. Their moments of playing at humanity are rare enough that they are worth valuing when they appear.

He pushes up on his elbow, gains himself the advantage of height to consider Hanamiya’s shoulders. There’s a pale leg extending from the blankets, a dark-bruised knee digging into the sheets. Imayoshi reaches for the edge of the sheet, pushes it down and away from Hanamiya’s skin. Then there’s the whole of his legs, one ankle twisted sideways into an angle that looks as uncomfortable as it is awkward, his shoulders hunching under his skin as his hair slides to tangle at his face. The insides of his thighs are slick, wet with saliva and lube and come all together; Imayoshi trails his fingers through the sticky cool of the liquid, uses it to press the shape of his fingers against the shift of Hanamiya’s breathing in his ribcage.

“You had better not fall asleep on me,” Imayoshi says, more of a statement than a warning. Hanamiya’s spine flexes, his shoulderblades digging against his skin like they’re trying to break free before he whines, “I’m not  _asleep_ , senpai,” with the petulant groan Imayoshi only ever lets him get away with when they’re like this.

“Good,” is all he says, now, his mouth twisting itself into a smile as he pushes his fingers up higher, over the knob at the top of Hanamiya’s spine and into the sweat-damp knots in his hair. “We still have work to do.”

Hanamiya’s laugh is sharp, biting past any attempt Imayoshi might make at excuses or euphemism. They don’t bother with that, between them. “Don’t fuck with me,” he says, turns his head sideways against the pillow. Imayoshi can see the fire starting to rekindle behind his eyes, the strands of dark hair catching at his spit-slick lips when he speaks. “You could tell work to fuck off if you wanted to.”

“I could,” Imayoshi allows, pushes his fingers up higher into Hanamiya’s hair. When he pulls Hanamiya turns accordingly, hissing a sound of pain without any protest under it at all. “That wouldn’t be very responsible of me, though.”

“I don’t give a fuck about responsibility,” Hanamiya says against the pillow. His shoulders are hunching again, like he’s trying to dig himself down against the mattress or arch up for more of Imayoshi’s touch.

“I know you don’t,” Imayoshi says, and drags back at Hanamiya’s head. It’s an awkward angle, too far back and sideways, and Hanamiya gasps involuntary pain at the pull, the sound going strained from the pressure it puts on his neck. The dark of his eyebrows draw together, his shoulders flare out as he tightens his hands against the bedsheets.

“ _Senpai_ ,” he says, but it’s not a plea, or at least not for mercy. Imayoshi can see the way Hanamiya’s looking at him, the way his eyes are going heavy and hot while his skin is still flushed almost human-warm from their first round.

He’s not surprised. This wasn’t his goal, exactly, but he knows how Hanamiya gets, that a kick or a punch is the fastest way to bring him open-mouthed and panting for anything Imayoshi wants to do to him, and if he’s not hard again himself yet, well.

He can fix that easily enough.

“Whore,” he says, the word picking up the resonance of affection in his throat. Hanamiya’s eyelashes flutter, the thick dark of them shadowing across his cheeks as he hisses an inhale. “Slut.” Hanamiya shudders, a tremor running through his whole body, and Imayoshi sits up the rest of the way, frees his other hand so he can reach for the strain in Hanamiya’s throat. The sound Hanamiya makes when Imayoshi’s fingers touch the patterns of past-tense bruises left there is glorious, hot and raw and anxious; it only sounds better when Imayoshi digs his fingertips in hard to skid it into the high keen of desperation. “You want me to fuck you again?”

“No,” Hanamiya rasps. Imayoshi can see the shudders ricocheting down his spine, the tension collecting in his hips. “No.”

Imayoshi raises an eyebrow, lets his smile go wider even though Hanamiya can’t see it. “No?” Purring, that, like it’s a question in truth. He lets Hanamiya’s hair go, wraps his fingers in against the other side of Hanamiya’s throat. He can lace his fingers together against Hanamiya’s pulse, squeeze in with the strength of both hands at once. Hanamiya jerks under him, a convulsive shudder of movement as his breath hisses faint and useless past his lips. “What  _do_  you want, Makoto?”

Hanamiya groans, a faint whine against the bed, and Imayoshi loosens his grip, lets Hanamiya gasp air past the threat of pressure at his throat. He can feel the other’s throat working under his fingers, the rush of air into Hanamiya’s lungs, and he’s smiling in truth now, the raw edge under the expression he usually keeps restrained around other people. Hanamiya’s filling his lungs, taking a deep rush of air and holding it to him like cigarette smoke, until by the time he speaks Imayoshi’s spine is crackling in anticipation, his fingers flexing with the desire to tighten against the line of Hanamiya’s throat.

“ _Hurt_  me,” Hanamiya says. The words are liquid, tar and fire in his throat, and Imayoshi’s fingers do flex, then, shove in against Hanamiya’s pulse point and stutter the exhale into a reflexive cough. His fingernails are short but he knows how to angle them, how to dig crescents of pain into Hanamiya’s skin while he loosens his other hand and curls his fingers into a fist.

“You want more?” he asks, rhetorically since Hanamiya can’t breathe clearly enough to muster words. “ _Still_?” His fist snaps out, knuckles burying themselves into the bruised prints he left earlier, and Hanamiya shudders like he’s been electrocuted, like Imayoshi’s fist is a brand. “Like this?” A smack, this time, an open palm cracking hard high against Hanamiya’s thigh, and Hanamiya groans, slides his knees wider on the bed. Imayoshi knows he’s hard again, doesn’t need to look to see; he just presses his knuckles to the small of Hanamiya’s spine, leans forward to shove his weight achingly hard against the other’s body. Hanamiya’s skin is slick with sweat, skidding under Imayoshi’s fingers; Imayoshi can feel his own body heating as if in echo, tension prickling under his spine and swelling into his cock.

“Or this,” he says, and he leans in this time, sets his teeth against the back of Hanamiya’s neck and bites down hard. His teeth aren’t sharp enough to easily tear skin -- Hanamiya bruises as much as he bleeds -- but Imayoshi gets a smear of red at his lips, the print of his mouth like a mark of ownership against Hanamiya’s spine, and a groan from under him, a low shivering note that bleeds out into Hanamiya’s shoulders and against his hips.

“Mm,” Imayoshi hums, draws back to lick his lips clean and consider the off-center bruise at Hanamiya’s neck, the asymmetry it creates with the tattoos on his back. It looks good, he decides, the shadow of bruising to match the permanency of the ink, and Hanamiya shivering under it, arching up like he’s pleading for more. Imayoshi’s cock is flushing to full hardness again, watching the dip and curve of Hanamiya’s spine as he tries to incite Imayoshi to more, and when Hanamiya’s knee slides wider he makes up his mind.

“Hold still,” Imayoshi says, so of course Hanamiya twists, pushes up on an elbow so he can blink overheated shadows at Imayoshi as the other kicks free of the blankets and moves in to press his knees to Hanamiya’s thighs. He digs his fingers in harder at Hanamiya’s throat, a reminder of his order, but that just makes Hanamiya whine, brings his hips up higher and back until he’s pressing against Imayoshi’s cock, like he’s trying to fuck himself before the other is ready.

“Hold  _still_ ,” Imayoshi says again, reaches out for Hanamiya’s waist so he can dig his fingers deep into the soft give of his abdomen. Hanamiya jerks, hisses not-protest, and Imayoshi lets his throat go so he can grab at his hair instead. It’s easy to shove him down into the bed, to crush his mouth against the sheets so Imayoshi’s making an angle of his body, and then Imayoshi can brace him in place, rock himself back until the head of his cock is catching at Hanamiya’s slick entrance.

“Don’t want me to fuck you,” he purrs, the statement verging up on a laugh over his tongue. When he thrusts forward the motion is easy, the heat of his cock sinking into Hanamiya in one smooth stroke. “Don’t lie to me, Makoto.” His hand slides sideways, his palm presses in against Hanamiya’s stomach, and he takes another thrust, slow so he can feel the way Hanamiya tenses around him. “You’re a fucking slut for me.”

“Yeah,” Hanamiya says against the sheets, the sound broken wide by the hoarseness of his throat and tearing around the threat of a laugh. “Yeah, senpai, sure, I’m your whore.”

“That’s right,” Imayoshi purrs. He lets Hanamiya’s hair go, rocks back on his knees so he can watch the slow slide of his cock into the other’s body, each movement slick and wet as Hanamiya’s skin clings to his. “You’re still loose from the first time.” He presses his fingers against the damp at Hanamiya’s skin, smears his fingers slippery as he keeps thrusting, long smooth strokes that are drawing half-voiced moans from the man under him. He presses a finger against Hanamiya’s skin, just under the steady slide of his cock, lets the heat of his words collect on his tongue before he speaks. “Want more, Makoto?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. It’s easy to push, to shove in against the hot flush of Hanamiya’s body, and then he’s fitting a finger in too, the friction of his knuckles against his cock nearly as satisfying as the way Hanamiya clenches around him, the weird broken noise he makes in lieu of coherency.

“There,” Imayoshi says, only a little breathless. Hanamiya’s still tensing against him in waves, like he can’t control the reaction of his body, each thrust of his hips rippling heat higher up his spine. “You’re tighter this way.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hanamiya manages, the sharp edges of the sound cutting themselves into coherency, and his head turns, his hair catching over his mouth and eyelashes. The stare he gives Imayoshi is wild, his eyes barely in focus at all anymore; he looks like he’s melting from the inside out, like all the heat in his blood is burning him down to ash and bone. “Senpai,  _more_ ,  _fuck_.”

Imayoshi flinches, then. He can’t help it; the shudder that runs up his spine is too much to handle, too deep-set in his blood for him to resist the involuntary motion. His smile cracks wide, lights up his eyes as only Hanamiya ever sees, and when he draws his hips back to slide his cock free it’s only so he can take a breath to brace himself.

“ _Senpai_ ,” Hanamiya whines, and Imayoshi hisses him into silence, shoves a second finger inside him. It goes easy, the stretching and the slick making the movement almost fluid, and Hanamiya groans, his eyelashes fluttering his gaze right out of coherency and into open-mouthed anticipation. Imayoshi wants to kiss him, wants to bite blood into the wet part of his lips, wants to suck against his tongue until Hanamiya whines at the hurt, but he can’t reach from here and he’s not ready to be done, yet. So he spreads his fingers instead, pushes Hanamiya as wide as he can stretch him before he fits his fingertips into place, threatens pressure against the point that makes Hanamiya shudder and moan like he’s broken, like he’s dying.

“Makoto,” Imayoshi purrs, and thrusts forward. It’s a tight fit with two fingers -- he has to go slow, has to ease himself forward until the head of his cock fits inside the heat of Hanamiya’s body -- but he can feel Hanamiya tensing with every forward movement, anticipation twisting him desperate against the sheets. His fingers press harder with each inch, digging more and more sensation into Hanamiya’s veins, until he’s not-quite-there when his cock catches up with the tips of his fingers, and Hanamiya groans a broken-glass noise and starts to come in sticky pulses over the sheets.

That’s all Imayoshi needs. He thrusts in the rest of the way, draws back while Hanamiya is still tensing involuntary friction around him, and when he pushes back in Hanamiya convulses, wails something incoherent and desperate into the sheets. It’s just Imayoshi’s pace from there on out, a few quick thrusts that leave Hanamiya hoarse and shuddering over the bed, until the tension of Hanamiya around him and the texture of his fingers against him is too much and he groans and spills hot inside the other’s body.

It feels like it goes on forever. Imayoshi’s not sure if it’s because it’s his second orgasm in an hour, or because of the unusual tension of Hanamiya stretched tight around his cock and two fingers at once, or because Hanamiya is still quivering under him in intermittent spasms of pleasure; all he can be sure of is his vision goes white, and stays blurred, and that he can feel each individual pulse of heat tense into an ache in his balls and spill over his fingers. Finally it’s his fingers that he draws free first, even that motion enough to knock the air from his lungs in a gasp, and then he’s slipping free to leave Hanamiya’s thighs wetter and stickier than they were before.

Imayoshi leans in, then, tips himself over the bed so he can press his chest against Hanamiya’s shoulders. Hanamiya looks glazed, his mouth open and eyes unfocused, until Imayoshi isn’t sure he’s listening at all to what he purrs into the other’s ear.

“Makoto.” Soft, gentle, out of keeping with the way he bites into Hanamiya’s earlobe to draw a reflexive shudder along the other’s spine and knock his eyes shut. “I love you.”

Hanamiya’s breath rushes out fast, something that might be a laugh with more volume. Imayoshi smiles, and tips in sideways so he can catch Hanamiya’s bruised lips with his own. He tastes like iron and oil, slick and bitter and poisonous, and Imayoshi licks past the part of his lips to suck the flavor off his tongue.

His fingertips fit against Hanamiya’s bruises.


End file.
